


things you said in the dark

by BlaugranaCielo



Category: Cancer Crew, Idubbbz-Fandom, Maxmoefoe-Fandom, The Filthy Frank Show, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alcohol, Kinda, M/M, cancer crew - Freeform, idk where this is going but we'll see, low-key plotless, set during the super trash bros vid
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-29 01:33:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19819798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlaugranaCielo/pseuds/BlaugranaCielo
Summary: Ian’s acutely aware of the fact that they’re rapidly crossing that transient grey area that lies past vanilla buddies and heading full tilt to friends who maybe fuck around a little too much to be purely platonic. Another thing he’s uncomfortably aware of is the realisation that he doesn’t give a fuck.Orthe one where George dips out of the cancer crew, and Ian's left to pick up the pieces of himself in the aftermath





	things you said in the dark

**Author's Note:**

> okay so let me just say- this was meant to be a relatively short one shot. But it kinda grew into a monstrosity, and I just couldn't end it in one chapter??? so, the end of this is a bit abrupt lmao but it'll wrap up in the next instalment.  
> (also, it makes me really sad that this fandom is semi dead and that I missed the golden days of it, can we bring it back to how it apparently was during peak, please??)
> 
> anyway. hope you enjoy!

The sky isn’t grey, exactly, it’s that off kind of pink on the precipice of transitioning to a storm, or a warm shower at least. It’s like 6, or maybe 7 in the evening, Ian’s not completely sure, muggy and warm in that drowsy kind of way that edges you to succumb to sleep. Ian flicks on the radio to keep himself from veering off road, twists up the knob at whatever prosaic shit it’s on.  
  
_-you’re listening to 97FM and this is New Blood. Spend your drive home listening to the freshest upcoming hits with Molly, Kaz and Jackson. Up next, Mac Ayres’ r &b single, Get to you again._  
  
He zones out kind of, functioning in a dual system where he’s physically still focused on the road and somewhat alert, just with his mind clouding over and shifting into foggy territory. He doesn’t know exactly how long he’s out of it for, but he guesses a while, ‘cause he zips through just about the entire program, which is what, 8, 9, 10 songs?  
  
_-okay last song of the evening guys, but definitely one to keep an eye on, here’s 88rising with Midsummer Madness._  
  
The song starts, all soft notes and an isolated voice and Ian doesn’t realise who it is for a good couple seconds, mind still hazy, and then it springboards into a louder tone and an extended note as the beat kicks in, and Ian’s jerked sharply back into clarity, fully processing the thing and accidentally jerking the wheel to the left as he shifts forward in his seat.  
The car nearly swerves onto the adjacent lane, and the guy who’s driving down it hits his brakes hastily.  
  
“Fuck!” he says when he sees Ian pull back to his own lane. He restarts his own car, shifts past. “watch where you’re going, dipshit.”  
  
Joji finishes up the chorus, allowing the song to transition into some other guy’s verse, and Ian parks the car on the side of the road, rests his head on the wheel for a couple minutes.  
  
  
~  
  
  
“Stop trying to shift onto the right lane, cunt.”  
  
“Fuck you. Why don’t you drive then.” Ian says, pushes his glasses back up. “where the hell are we even going again? You haven’t even turned on the fucking gps.”  
  
“Nah, I know the place. It’s like a little clearing like off to the side of a campsite. I’ll show you when we get close dude, just keep going straight.”  
  
“This is fucking sus, man.” George offers from the backseat, glancing up from his phone. “Why do I get the feeling you’re dragging us to assfuck, Australia to like, dump our bodies in a ditch or something.”  
  
“Fuckin’ deserve it.”  
  
The remark isn’t completely unwarranted. They’ve been driving for over an hour now and have officially transcended the border from semi rural and rural townage to full on west Australian bush, miles and miles of dry off green brush and uneven red road that blurs into a blend of neutral shades as they zip by. Max is fucking picky as hell when it comes to shooting locations though, and he’s ostensibly got something intricate planned for the latest instalment of nonsensical filth.

“Turn here?”

Max furrows his brows. “Uhhh. Yeah. Yeah, take the left, think that’s it.”

“This is fucked, dude. Just get the fucking gps.”  
  
It’s late, kind of, though not late enough for the last dredges of daylight to have been eschewed in favour of a flood of streetlight, and they’ve got the windows fully open despite the fact that the wind is cold enough to numb his facial extremities and his eyes when his glasses slide down.

Max is twisted back in his seat, saying something about the video to George, who adds the occasional input or quip. He shifts onto his right hip, bumping into the filming props and ubiquitous beers that are piled precariously on the middle compartment.

“Yeah so basically you’re just gonna be fucking around the forest at the start. It’s like the set up for the rest of it, exposition type shit, you know.”

“Improv that?” George says, using a half chewed lollipop stick to pick at his teeth.

“yeah I reckon. I mean, I’ve got a couple lines for framework and all, but yeah.” Max pulls out a sloppily folded A5 sheet out his pocket. It’s from a Pokemon themed mini plan-it notebook, the flip out kind.

George gives it a once over. “Nice.”

“You didn’t even read it.”

George waves his hand at him lazily, dismissing the notion.

~

“Bring that tight little ass over here, bitch.” George quips when Max zips up his princess peach costume, and Max promptly flips him off, but not before mock-saucily flipping up the back of his skirts first.

It’s like the usual; vague plot ideas and directions for the vid strung together by leaps of semi drunken improv, and it works, he guesses, ‘cause they get a pretty good reel with some real solid moments peppered healthily throughout. Naturally, there’s some unusable shit as well; nonsensical and/or redundant jokes that, in hindsight, would probably throw off the vid. Max’ll edit them out later, Ian figures, so he goes full on.

~

George semi walks, semi stumbles over to where they’re setting up barrels for the climax of the video, the quintessential showdown that would aptly wrap up any discernible conflict between Max’s farce of the Mario Bros.

“How’s it going boys.” He says, cig in one hand and half eaten peach in the other; naturally, they’d made a couple stops along the ride and they’d stopped off at a peach farm; George always was a sucker for that rustic cardboard sign aesthetic shit, and apparently, Western Aus was full of them.

(The guy at the front of the property when they stopped off at the farm, the owner, Ian guesses, is unnaturally friendly and jacked, practically bounds over to the car when they pull in.

“You boys here for the produce, or tour?” He says when Ian winds down the window, placing a heavy hand on the ledge. Max looks over at him and pulls a face, like _we’re either gonna get shot or end up taxidermied and mounted by this guy in more way than one._

“You know what I’ve always said?” George says later that afternoon when they’re picking peaches on the guy’s property, ‘cause he doesn’t know when to stop. “I’ve always said that a good peach should have the same colour and consistency as pussy.” He slaps the trunk of a nearby tree and adds for good measure. “Wet, you know.”

Ian rolls his eyes from behind him.

The guy places an unthreatening, if not slightly poorly timed hand low on George’s back, and George throws them a cursory glance over his shoulder, raises his eyebrows comically. Max mimes sucking a dick.

“Oh yeah he fucking wants to tap that, man.” Max says offhandedly, completely unwarranted.

“For sure.”)

~

It’s full on dark now and they’re done filming; the whole surreal display of bizarre scenes successfully conjoined to create Max’s masterpiece. Max himself is fucking conked out in the front seat, head tilted back in an almost comical angle that he’s going to regret when he sees photos of it later down the track.

“Yeah see this part-“ George pauses, rewinds the camera slightly to show Ian the offending scene. “I feel like this part’s kinda unnecessary. Like we already set up that idea before.”

“Mm.” Ian says from next to him, lax, eyes shut.

“You look like shit man.”

“Well we’ve been filming for like 5 hours straight, jackass.”

George stretches out his legs, resting them on the centre compartment and there’s a hollow clink as he accidentally nudges the stack of empty beer bottles strewn over the floor.  
George picks up a semi empty bottle, drains the last dregs with an ungodly slurping noise and Ian wheezes, apparently having reached that point on the night when just about everything is hysterically comical.

There’s a natural lapse in conversation and the space is flooded with a comfortable silence, the kind that doesn’t ask to be filled with small talk and redundant conversation. Ian rests his head back against the threadbare seat, lets it rush over him like waves lapping gently at his feet at the beach, the ambient lighting and the warm (if not slightly muggy) air inside the car.

“Hey. hey, man.” George’s voice is hoarse from overuse.

“Yeah.”

George shifts slightly, scoots over to the middle seat and sits forward. Ian cracks one eye open to glance over at him.

“You, uh. You ever think about where we’re heading after this.” George gestures vaguely around them.

Ian wrinkles his nose, pushes his glasses up. “Uh, I mean- I assumed we’re going back to Max’s- unless-“

“No, no, that’s not. That’s not what I meant.”

Ian raises a cautious eyebrow, slightly weary.

“I mean like- after youtube. Like, we’re not gonna do this shit forever, y’know? Something’s gotta give. Like, don’t you ever feel like this is just temporary? Like it’s leading off to something else, right?” George presses.

“Look I- if you’re trying to say something, just come out and fucking say it, dude, ‘cause I have no fucking idea what you’re going on about.” Ian frowns, runs a tense tongue against the back of his teeth the way he does when he’s stressed. He doesn’t know whether it’s the drink, or the fullness of the day, but he’s way too gone to deal with any of George’s late night existentialist bullshit.

“Yeah, yeah of course. Classic Ian.” George shifts away sharply, and some props fall onto the floor from their precarious resting position on the compartment. There’s a bitter smile teetering on the edge of his lips. “Fuck you man. You wouldn’t get it.”

There’s a tense silence that settles down on them, quick and heavy and stifling and threatening to spill over with unsaid implications. Several minutes pass, just a static mixture of trepidation and pre emptive anxiety and Ian just. Sits. Waits for it to hit.

“Look, realistically, I don’t know how much longer I’ll be doing this for.” George says candidly, and it’s like the breaking point of a wave, that point of simultaneous relief and destruction between the build up and the inevitable dissipation of the water into foam on the sand.

“”Yeah?” Ian says, quiet.

“Yeah.”

Ian nods slowly and shuts his eyes so hard they hurt, presses the side of his face against the damp window of the car. There’s an acrid, sharp ache in the base of his skull, bitter when it floods up through his nose and comes to prick at his eyes. His hands fumble blindly around on the seat and manage to grasp a cig. His arms are heavy in his lap. He figures he might as well light up.  
George is still saying something, about music, and new York, and record labels, ostensibly planning his new life, and Ian’s untethered. His finger stutters down the trail left on the glass by a solitary raindrop.

“You good?” George is staring at him.

There’s a beat. “Yeah.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” Ian takes a half assed drag, and the cig’s loose and shaky between his fingers. “Kinda, kinda weird timing, man.”

The tension in the air’s palpable, almost as thick as the scent of George’s axe bodyspray, because George is the kind of guy to use the same fucking brand of deodorant as he did at 16.

“Ah, shit. Shit, man.” George exhales, places a well meaning, if not slightly patronising hand on his knee. “I didn’t mean to let you know like this.”

“But you, uh. You probably knew it was coming anyway.” He continues when Ian opts to not respond.

He had. He had known it was coming for a while now. If he’s being really honest here, no bullshit, spit on palm and swear, he’d been anticipating it since he’d met the guy. George had skated into his life with no warning like an unexpected flood after a drought, all booze and fucked stunts and loud laughter, no refunds, no take back policy, and he was gonna exit just the same.

“Yeah. Well.” Ian says, vacantly, but he doesn’t move away all the same. “Thanks for the heads up.”

“Jesus, dude. Fuck.” George says, sighs and roughly places a warm hand on the back of Ian’s neck, conks both their foreheads together. His other hand’s still firmly on Ian’s knee, rubbing placatingly. “What do you- what do you want me to say, what do you want me to do?” He continues.  
Ian’s torso hollows out, like it’s making way for a deep pulsing void in the cavity of his chest, pushing against his ribs and compressing the nerves around them, a pre emptive gaping hole that George is gonna leave in him.

Ian tries for a change of tone, tries to let it go. “I mean, I, I’m happy for you dude, it’s just-“

“Bullshit.” George says breathily, slides the offending hand further up his leg, then pauses for one, two, three seconds. Ian realises that he’s effectively giving him an out, like a four second window that he has to dip, if he wants, if this is too much for him, if getting felt up by one of his best bros in the backseat of a car is a little too unorthodox and offbeat for his tastes. He doesn’t.

George presses closer to the point that their noses are just touching and Ian has to cross his eyes slightly to get a good look at him. He can smell his aftershave, 3 in 1 shampoo/face/bodywash offbrand dollar store shit, but it’s good all the same, familiar.

“Wha- what are you, fuckin’ gay?” Ian tries lightly but it falls flat. He can feel George’s breath hot on his face when he huffs out a laugh at the remark.

Ian’s acutely aware of the fact that they’re rapidly crossing that transient grey area that lies past vanilla buddies and heading full tilt to friends who maybe fuck around a little too much to be purely platonic. Another thing he’s uncomfortably aware of is the realisation that he doesn’t give a fuck. Not now, not at this point, with George’s hand chafing against his upper thigh and his boozy breath hot on his face, the dank of it only mildly unpleasant.

“It won’t change anything.” George says, slurring, and Ian only half hears him. He’s not fully processing whether he’s talking about the move or the foreshadowed fucking. George is now half slouched beneath him, and from this vantage point, Ian has an accelerated view of dark thick lashes juxtaposed on pasty skin, which gives him a semi, god knows why.  
Ian himself’s in a comfortably tipsy state, only mildly sloshed, nowhere near as far gone as George. It’s safer to pretend though, he thinks vaguely as George’s eyes, slightly unfocused and distant grâce à alcohol, come level with his own. Easier to pass it off as an inebriated affair later, when they reflect on it with the newfound clarity provided by the morning light.

“Do you want-“

“Yes.” Ian says quickly, because he does want. God, he wants.

George leans in, anything but tentative, and that’s it, that’s the whole matter closed, deal or no deal, in the back of Max’s shitty Corolla, the whole 25 years of Ian’s supposed heterosexuality coming to an untimely standstill with the boozy taste of George’s tongue in his mouth. Ian reaches up and fumbles around for the car light, flicks it off. It’s easier like that, he tells himself. Easier to come to terms with the fact that it’s your mate’s mouth that’s currently on your neck, and the fact that something so first base has got you harder than a preteen who just scored his first playboy mag from that one sus kid at school.

“fuck, Ian, you good there, buddy?” George pauses for a second and wipes some accumulated spit off his mouth, leers up at him only half mockingly. The sight of it makes Ian’s head spin in the best way. “Look like you’re about to have a fucking panic attack.”

“What? No, no, I’m good.” He gets out, before George laughs, hoarse and rough and entirely too loud for the fact that Max is still less than half a fucking metre in front of them. George hooks a knee over his leg, finally slips a hand under his boxers, and Ian gets this impending sense that they’ve effectively stumbled past the metaphorical line in some kind of fucked three legged race that promises covert hand jobs and blow jobs and other assorted jobs somewhere past the finish.

“Don’t come yet.” George says offhandedly, like it’s easy. He accidentally wedges his foot into one of the grooves on the side door and winces. “fuck.”

This is fine, Ian thinks, surprisingly clearheaded despite the liquor headed fuckfest he’s currently a participant in. Surely, surely this is what constitutes the grounds of a truly postmodern friendship, like- George tangles a rough hand in his admittedly greasy hair and Ian breaks thought for a second to moan- like, there’s no real way to consummate a bona fide mateship without said mate’s hands on your crotch at least once in your sad, short, regretful life- in a purely platonic sense, of course.

“Want me to suck you off?” George says roughly, more of a statement than a question, and Ian nearly chokes on his own spit.

“Jesus, don’t say it like- like that.” He gets out breathily, looking down at him. “but, yeah, okay.”

He grins up at him, the cunt, takes one more second to lick into Ian’s mouth before pulling back.

George slides down into the footspace, hooks a finger round the elastic of Ian’s boxers, and Ian thinks _you’re going to be the death of me._

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading, and comment if u can!! it always helps :))))


End file.
